


The Spirit of Desire

by scandalsavage



Series: Gods Among Us [7]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Grayson (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Existential Crisis, Face-Fucking, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Play Fighting, Rimming, sladick is established
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29421222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scandalsavage/pseuds/scandalsavage
Summary: (Chronologically, this takes place before anything else in the series. Can be read as a standalone.)The thing about desire that no one knows, is that it’s exhausting. “Desire” is such a broad stroke.Each human, for example, desires pretty much everything, from the basic necessities of survival to all the comforts offered by an increasingly modern world.The thing about Love and War, is that they’re exhausting. Desire is almost always the path that leads to the chaos they unleash. No matter how much Tiger tries to avoid them, they are all inevitably pulled together by gravity.Tiger never comes to the Hall of Divinity. Even when he has business with Nightwing, he usually makes the god of love meet him somewhere on Earth. It’s rare that Nightwing insists.This is one of those rarities.And this is why Tiger stays away.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson, Dick Grayson/Tiger, Slade Wilson/Dick Grayson/Tiger (DCU), Slade Wilson/Tiger (DCU)
Series: Gods Among Us [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1172759
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	The Spirit of Desire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Walor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walor/gifts).



> Chronologically, this takes place before anything else in the series. Can be read as a standalone.
> 
> Happy very, _very, **very**_ late 2020 birthday to my dearest Walor. I'm so sorry.

The thing about desire that no one knows, is that it’s exhausting. “Desire” is such a broad stroke.

Each human, for example, desires pretty much everything, from the basic necessities of survival to all the comforts offered by an increasingly modern world.

They want their wives and husbands, they want their neighbors’ wives and husbands, they want their neighbors’ pretty sons and daughters, they want their gold, they want their neighbors’ gold.

They want, and want, and want. On and on and on. Excessive and unending. And there are so many of them now.

It’s an eternal headache. Of few mortals he has had interaction with, all have been surprised to find the much lauded spirit of desire—the focus of many of their more… risqué tales—to be a tired curmudgeon, even when the mere sight of him fuels an instinctive _want_ that they carry for weeks, even months after their meeting. And, for some reason, this era has seen a massive uptick in prayers directly to him, to have him speak to the god of his sphere on their behalf. Not to mention a whole slew of new stories and legends about his… _prowess_ , all of which are imaginative fabrications. 

Tiger really hopes the next era won’t be quite as hedonistic as this one (the Roman’s are insatiable) but he’s not one to bet on it. 

The gods used to be the worst ones, filled with lust for anything and everything, but now? Now Tiger couldn’t say if one was any better than the other. The only difference now, really, is that the gods have the means to sate their desires, whatever they may be.

Most of them.

The thing about Love and War, is that they’re _exhausting_. Desire is almost always the path that leads to the chaos they unleash. No matter how much Tiger tries to avoid them, they are all inevitably pulled together by gravity.

Tiger never comes to the Hall of Divinity. Even when he has business with Nightwing, he usually makes the god of love meet him somewhere on Earth. It’s rare that Nightwing insists.

This is one of those rarities.

And this is why Tiger stays away.

Deathstroke, god of war, Nightwing’s husband, _desires_ Tiger. And when they’re in the same place, that want is so strong it’s almost overwhelming. Most the gods and spirits lust after each other, fervently and desperately, at some point or another. It is nothing new or unusual. Infidelity has no meaning or significance in the heavens. 

However, Tiger himself feels no desire for anything. Humans are often confused by his indifference. Even his hermitage is less a want and more a precaution.

Because the only time Tiger feels desire, is when it’s all consuming and directed at him. When he absorbs and reflects that need. It’s part of why he stays away. He’s never certain when desire comes from within himself or from external sources.

A flaw of divinity, if the divine can be imperfect. 

A wicked trick of fate, if it cannot.

Deathstroke has always been particularly bothersome. Most the gods and spirits try to keep it under control on the occasion Tiger is near. But not the war god. He’s open and flaunting, lets every dirty whim fill his mind and project outward. 

It makes Tiger’s breath catch despite himself.

From the moment the god enters the chambers he shares with his husband and his keen grey eye catches on Tiger’s presence, Tiger feels that want flood out of every divine centimeter. 

With a roll of his own eyes, Tiger stands from where he’d seated himself at the one table in the airy room. The creak and scrape of the grey wood, carved with intimately entwined figures in the throws of passion (some fighting, others fucking), echoes off the glimmering marble walls, floor, and towering pillars. 

“I will wait outside,” he grumbles, stepping right when Deathstroke moves left.

The god of war smirks at him and stills. “No need to run off, kitten. I’m sure we can find something to occupy your time while we wait for Nightwing.”

Tiger curls his lip at the endearment, even though he has already resigned himself to the outcome of this evening.

This is not their first encounter, after all. 

Of all the gods, Nightwing and Deathstroke are the ones he is least bothered by. Perhaps it is the overlap of their spheres of influence creating some divine bond; the way desire plays such an important role in both their domains. Over the millennia, he has been welcomed—and welcomed them—into their bed a dozen times or so. More than most. 

It always makes Tiger rethink his self-enforced solitude. 

Which is why he tries to avoid them, he thinks as Deathstroke stalks nearer. 

Alone, Tiger can handle Nightwing. The other aspects of Love help keep the god aware of his influence and temper desire with selflessness and respect. 

The god of war has no such tempering aspects. Everything he is, stratagem, combat, victory… makes him a being of singular focus, always in pursuit his goals.

“You want to fight first this time, pet?” 

Deathstroke wants it. Tiger can feel it rippling through the air, the _need_ to fight for what he wants, the _yearning_ for triumph over that which he desires. 

It is difficult to ignore the shiver that intensity sends down Tiger’s spine. 

He is tempted to say no. Just to be stubborn. Tempted to dig his heels in and deny the god anything at all. If Tiger insists, Deathstroke won’t push. 

Saying no will just stoke those flames of desire, in the end. Deathstroke will consider it a battle of wills, another fight in need of winning. 

And, if Tiger is honest with himself, it has been a very long time. Several centuries at least. 

He glances over Deathstroke’s shoulder at the door, ignoring the look of triumph that spreads over the god’s battle-weathered face in the form of a bright, predatory grin. They know Tiger too well.

“He’ll be along soon,” Deathstroke promises. “We’ll just get warmed up.”

Tiger snorts, watching the slow, careful approach, muscles tense and ready, just in case he decides to humor Deathstroke. 

Truthfully, Tiger prefers them both together. If he’s going to give into that lust, he wants to get the most out of it, knowing that the period of indifference after will last longer the better sated he leaves. And together there is nothing that matches the combined passions of Deathstroke and Nightwing. 

“So, kitten. What’ll it be? Get straight to it? Or fight first?”

The grin is even wider as those long strides bring the god closer. Like he knows the answer already even though Tiger still hasn’t decided. 

Three paces.

Two.

“If you wish,” Tiger sighs in boredom. But at the end of the sentence he strikes, quick as a snake. 

It doesn’t fully take Deathstroke by surprise. He didn’t expect it to. Fighting the god of war is an exercise in futility. This is just a game. 

Even so, Deathstroke’s knee buckles slightly from where Tiger’s foot landed (probably only because Deathstroke allowed it), and Tiger is already sliding on the marble, using a grip open the god’s ankle to swing around and plant another kick in the small of his back. 

Deathstroke stumbles forward—no more than a step—and chuckles darkly. 

Tiger pretends the low, dangerous rumble doesn’t make arousal pool in the core of him. 

“This is why I like you, kitten—” Deathstroke growls turning and reaching for Tiger. 

Tiger dances around the outstretched arm only to trip on Deathstroke’s suddenly extended leg. He’s snagged out of the air by the god’s other hand wrapping around his throat.

“—You never hold back.”

His back slams into Deathstroke’s huge chest and the air whooshes out of him. But before the god can trap him in the inescapable vice of both arms, Tiger squeezes his own fingers under the hand at his throat and angles an elbow up to jab into the higher ribs.

Deathstroke’s grunt is more reactionary than real and quickly tapers into another huff of laughter as Tiger slides out of his grip and slinks around to plant himself behind the god.

He doesn’t even see Deathstroke move. 

One moment he’s settled into his stance, a heartbeat away from pouncing. The next, Deathstroke has him pinned on the floor with an echoing crack of his skull on marble. 

Doesn’t hurt, benefit being a cosmic force of nature. But it is jarring. 

The hand is once again at his neck, thumb brushing softly over the peak of his throat. A stark contrast to where the other has Tiger’s wrist gripped bruisingly tight against the floor next to his ear. 

With his free hand, Tiger jabs at Deathstroke’s exposed gullet. 

He doesn't even make contact. 

His arm is snapped out of the air and pressed over his head. The other joins it, both wrists pinned by one of Deathstroke’s huge palms, while the other returns to Tiger’s throat.

It all happened so fast, Tiger barely registered. 

“I thought you would wish to prolong the fight,” Tiger mutters, raising his brows. 

That single grey eye glints with so much heat, Tiger feels it rise under his skin. 

Sharp teeth nip at his jaw and Tiger turns his head enough to bite down hard on Deathstroke’s ear. 

The god growls and attacks Tiger’s neck with lips and teeth and tongue. 

Tiger stuffs the content sigh that tries to escape back into his lungs in favor of gnawing on Deathstroke’s earlobe. 

“Changed my mind.” Deathstroke’s deep hum vibrates against Tiger’s chest where they’re pressed together. “It’s been so long since you’ve joined us, kitten. Can’t keep my hands off of you.”

Yes, Tiger can feel that. Deathstroke’s hand has left his throat in favor of exploring the rest of his body. Dipping in and out of the folds of his tunic to twist at a nipple or trace over the lines of Tiger’s abs. 

The hand slips under Tiger’s trousers, cupping over his erection for a rough squeeze, before dragging back up his body, over his throat.

A warm palm anchors under his chin, tilting his head back. Sword-calloused fingers curl around the line of coarse black beard to tug at his lip, hook around his teeth, pull his mouth open and start toying with his tongue. 

Without prompting, Tiger wraps his lips around the digits. Sucks and swipes his tongue between them. Deathstroke’s hands taste of the coppery tang of blood and smoke and leather; the flavor of war and glory.

When Tiger is like this, he cannot think of anything he wants more than the taste of War on his tongue.

Fortunately, Deathstroke is always happy to accommodate Tiger’s desires.

Soon enough, the god sees fit to replace his fingers with his mouth. They kiss like great foes, vicious and frenzied, each trying to gain dominance over the other.

Tiger never wins. The god of war knows nothing of submission. Deathstroke does not surrender. 

The large hand restraining Tiger’s wrists releases them. The fingers probing the depths of Tiger’s throat, exploring the cavern of his mouth, disappear.

Three damp digits press to the bottom of each of the marks on Tiger’s forehead representing the three facets of desire; fulfillment, vanity, and necessity. They slide up the lines, wind themselves in the thick, dark strands of Tiger’s hair and yank him upright. 

When did Deathstroke even stand?

The god of war peers down at Tiger in all the naked splendor of conquest. Battle-hardened, sun-kissed skin bulging and rippling over huge muscles hard as granite. His massive uncut prick stands straight out of a perfectly groomed thatch of wiry white hair (Nightwing’s insistence, almost certainly). That single, sharp grey eye of the hunter raking over Tiger’s own, suddenly bared, form.

Tiger knows what he sees. Many have sung the praises of the spirit of desire’s physical manifestation. His warm ocher skin, always glistening as though rubbed with aromatic oils (a reflection of what is most admired by the most pious of his sects). The soft spread of fine dark brown hair across his chest, framing dusky nipples, perked in interest. It leads downwards from his navel into a patch, thicker and coarser than the rest, out of which juts his quickly filling cock.

“I always forget how fucking beautiful you are, kitten,” Deathstroke purrs, giving Tiger’s hair another sharp tug. “You should grace us with your presence more often. Stop making us wait so long to get you back in our bed.” 

Tiger ignores the rest of his comment but grumbles a response. “You know I loathe that endearment.”

“I know.” Deathstroke guides his prick to Tiger’s mouth, tip touching Tiger’s soft lips, glossing them with the thin sticky substance already leaking out. “But you know what it does to me, seeing you flustered and annoyed.”

Tiger’s cheeks darken with embarrassment and he glares. But his mouth opens eagerly when Deathstroke just smiles and starts pressing past his teeth. He feels the prominent vein on the underside throb against his tongue.

There is something about this, the intimacy, the closeness, the _want,_ that strikes at some deeply buried, half forgotten longing in Tiger. It thrums through him like a note on a lyre, clear and true as though plucked by the goddess of music herself. 

If gods and spirits have souls, this is Tiger’s. Every slow drag of fingers gently combing through his hair, every contented sigh from above him. Every rough tug, every desperate thrust. The soft and the hard, the give and take, and all that _needneedneed_. Reciprocated desire is like a drug. If the gods have souls, this is definitely Tiger’s. Intimacy, closeness… it’s the heart, the essence, of desire. The marrow-deep drive to be something, do something, have something that fills the existential void of existence.

There is no warning. It’s not Deathstroke’s style. One moment he’s driving his pelvis into Tiger’s nose, stuffing that massive dick as deep into Tiger’s throat as possible and growling at the tight fit. The next, he stills with a choked off groan and spills down Tiger’s esophagus, straight into Tiger’s belly. 

Deathstroke pulls back before he’s finished, pausing with the head of his cock on Tiger’s tongue. Tiger obligingly opens his mouth wide enough for Deathstroke to see the final spurts of thick white come coat over the pink. 

The god of war tastes like sun-warmed iron and sweat and bay laurel. Gods it’s been so long. The last time Tiger was here, Deathstroke tasted like softened bronze and cracked leather. He can’t help but wonder if the god tasted like anything else between, if there were flavors he missed out on entirely.

His reverie is broken by Deathstroke’s large hands—larger even, than a moment ago. Deathstroke has always enjoyed towering over his partners and Tiger is unsurprised to see he’s made himself bigger. Tiger finds himself lifted as easily as if he were, indeed, a kitten, and flung halfway across the room.

As expected, he lands in the plush mattress of the large bed Deathstroke shares with his husband. The bedding is supernaturally comfortable, even to the divine. Airy white sheets, soft as satin and light as clouds. Likely gifts from Arsenal or the god of sleep himself. 

Tiger gives an involuntary shudder. Minos, the god of sleep and dreams and illusions is… disconcerting. Tiger does his best to keep his distance. 

Pressure on his balls makes him yelp and refocus his attention back to Deathstroke with a scowl.

The god smirks back at him, fist wrapped around Tiger’s most sensitive bits. 

“You’re not here enough to go somewhere else in that pretty little head of yours,” Deathstroke says, tightening his grip just enough to make Tiger hiss. “When you’re in my bed, I’m all you think about. Understood?”

Tiger forces his scowl to deepen and glares. It’s frustrating to the heavens, the way Deathstroke demands and pushes and _takes_. But if Tiger doesn’t control his expressions, the god will almost certainly discover the way that dominance sinks into Tiger’s bones, pools hot in his belly, and makes Tiger repress another shiver. 

Even if it is entirely possible Deathstroke is already aware. It’s entirely possible Tiger likes the dominance because Deathstroke likes to dominate. It’s that uncertainty that keeps Tiger away from physical intimacy for decades, even centuries, at a time.

He always allows that uncertainty to overwhelm his conscious thoughts. It winds its way into every nook and cranny in his mind. Is this really him, or what he was made to be?

In the end, in these moments, when Deathstrokes is throwing Tiger’s thick legs over his shoulders, lifting Tiger’s trim waist off the bed, and putting his hot, wet tongue to Tiger’s twitching, desperate hole with a deep rumbling moan… when Tiger allows himself to give into his divine nature, none of that uncertainty matters. He allows himself to be consumed by his own need.

It’s serene. Almost a trance, getting lost in the feel of the tongue delving deeper and deeper, the teeth scraping and nipping, the fingers digging and clawing. Tiger tosses his head back against the pillows of pale, pastel orange and blue in pure, profound rapture.

He doesn’t realize all those hitched little breaths and pleading whines filling the room, so unlike his usual gruff demeanor, are coming from his own lips until Deathstroke surfaces with a cheshire grin and says, “That’s it, kitten. Purr for me.”

Tiger can’t even think of a snarky reply before the thick, blunt head of the god’s cock presses to his entrance. Deathstroke pushes in slowly, deliberately, making sure Tiger feels every single bit of added length inexorably splitting him open. 

Fingers dig into the meat of Tiger’s thighs, using the leverage to pick up the pace. Tiger’s own twist into the sheets beneath him, gripping so tightly his knuckles turn nearly as white as the fabric as Deathstroke pulls him back to meet each thrust, hammering into him with labored grunts. 

It makes Tiger’s toes curl in the air beyond the head of thick, loose white hair. The power. The eagerness. The way heat spreads through his body from where they’re connected. Long minutes—maybe hours—extend from this point, filling him with an easy, simple kind of bliss. 

Tiger bites his lip so hard it may bruise. Deathstroke’s muscles flex under his skin with every concentrated movement, his abs pull tight when he grinds his hips against Tiger’s ass to get ever so deeper. 

Overcome, Tiger untangles one of his hands from the silky sheets and reaches toward the god, desperate to get his own hands on that glistening body, feel the slide of those marble muscles against his own heated flesh.

With a smirk, Deathstroke obliges. Dropping Tiger’s legs from his shoulders and wrapping them around his waist as he leans forward. 

One hand buries in Tiger’s hair while the other squeezes his hip to keep them both rocking against each other. 

Growling possessively, Deathstroke slams their lips together. His tongue is just as hot and talented twisting in Tiger’s mouth as it was between his legs. The kiss is demanding and sloppy and full of teeth. With feral, fervent desire, they bite at each other.

Tiger hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes until he peeks them open. There, hovering scant centimeters above him, puffs of warm breath panting over Tiger’s face, is the intoxicating sight of Deathstroke’s lips, bruised plump and red from Tiger’s attentions, and furrowed brows. The god, clearly just as affected as Tiger. 

It makes Tiger feel… powerful.

He redoubles his efforts, jabbing his body down in time with the increasingly desperate upwards drive of the god’s pelvis. 

Deathstroke snarls into Tiger’s mouth and somehow fucks impossibly harder, impossibly faster, until Tiger’s head is thumping against the delicately carved headboard. The new angle makes Tiger’s mouth fall open, cries of _ah-ah-ah_ punched out almost as quickly as he can suck in the air to make the sounds.

A breathy curse slips in when the hand on his hip moves to his own neglected cock.

 _“Fuck,”_ he gasps as pleasure soars through him, molten and intense, and he arches off the bed. 

One masterful stroke of Deathstroke’s sword-hand. Two. Then, with a shouted, “Fuck!”, the tension that has been building since the first appraising drag of Deathstroke’s eye bursts, snapping like a string of fate. \

His release splashes up his belly, over his chest. A drop or two make it all the way up to his face and Tiger doesn’t even get the chance to consider licking his lips before Deathstroke’s are moving over each spot, hot tongue flattened against Tiger’s cheek. 

Deathstroke moans at the taste of Tiger on his tongue and, combined with a well timed, well aimed thrust, pulls another, albeit weaker, spurt of come from the spirit. 

Tiger falls back against the mattress, boneless and sated, feeding off the frenzied rutting against him as Deathstroke seeks his own finish. 

As he reaches it, his hand clamps around Tiger’s throat, squeezing just the right side of too tight and their lips are once again mauling each other. 

A moment later, Deathstroke grinds into him, burying his cock as far as he can go (and maybe a little farther if the snaking sensation deep inside Tiger is what he thinks it is). 

Heat pours into him. Deathstroke’s seed floods into any available space not taken by the god’s massive prick. There’s so much that Tiger can feel it spill out of him and run down the swell of his backside. 

All it does is make that warm, fuzzy feeling in what _must_ be Tiger’s soul even lighter. Content. It feels almost as though a weight has lifted.

He feels more grounded, more like himself, than he has in ages. 

Blearily, Tiger blinks when the weight on top of him lifts. He finds Deathstroke sitting back on his haunches, eyeing where they’re still connected. A warm, calloused finger caresses over Tiger’s stretched rim almost reverently. 

Tiger sighs, letting his legs relax from their death-grip around Deathstroke’s waist. 

Deathstroke catches one before it reaches the sheets and raises it back up to his chest. Tiger watches, completely enamored, as the god of war plants a gentle, almost chaste kiss to his ankle. 

“Perfect as always,” Deathstroke hums, nuzzling against his calf. 

The smile that spreads over Tiger’s face feels awkward and drunken. But he is high on the euphoria and he doesn’t have it in him right now to care, or over-analyze. 

He just wants to soak up this bone deep satisfaction.

They lie there in the quiet, catching their breath, for only a moment before a new voice cuts through the easy silence.

“Well, if that wasn’t the most beautiful sight to come home to.”

From behind Deathstroke, the god of love saunters into view, lean and lithe and beautiful. Body moving with effortless grace, a big, hungry grin splitting his face, showing his perfect, sparkling white teeth. 

Nightwing’s shiny black hair hangs partially in the deepest, blue eyes in existence. Eyes that glitter darkly as they rake over Tiger’s body. A pretty pink tongue pokes out to lick his lips when his gaze reaches where his husband’s still hard cock is still stuffed in Tiger’s hole.

The grin goes lopsided, one corner of those perfect lips pulling higher than the other. Those impossible eyes share a conspiratorial look with Deathstroke before returning to Tiger’s face. Soft, slim, fingers reach out to pet up Tiger’s belly, smoothing over the peaks and valleys of Tiger’s muscles, before cupping over one of Tiger’s generous pecs before he speaks again.

“Hope you saved some for me, _kitten_.”

**Author's Note:**

> You all know where this is going 😏


End file.
